Bittersweet
by SarahSwan7
Summary: 'The idea of loving him was exhilarating; the idea of losing him unbearable.' Zaf/Jo one-shot, set around Series 4.


**A/N: I haven't posted anything for a while and this little idea came to me recently. A review would be appreciated :)**

After twenty six years of living, Jo is familiar with regrets.

Some are relatively insignificant. Selecting six-inch heels for a night out without wearing them in first. Challenging a friend to a Haribo-eating contest aged seven, being horribly sick afterwards and not being able to stand the sweets ever since. Being talked into the trap of 'once last drink' again and again.

The most recent one was moving in with Zaf.

It sounded so cruel. He was sweet to offer her a place and even sweeter to cook her dinner on her first night. They shared the washing up. Their tastes in TV were basically the same, but he always let her choose. The only thing that ever got on her nerves was his bathroom-hogging, and even then he would saunter out with fantastic hair and so she couldn't really complain.

But proximity could be suffocating. His eyes were sparkly. He smelt of aftershave and minty chewing gum. He bit his lip when concentrating, and tapped his fingers on surfaces when he was bored to form a drumbeat, and hummed songs he'd heard on the radio.

And yet nothing would or could happen, because of her own refusal to get involved. Their work was dangerous. The idea of loving him was exhilarating; the idea of losing him unbearable.

So sometimes she would snatch glances of him when he was eating toast, or cleaning his teeth, or driving them to work, and wish that she could have some sort of guarantee that these wonderful ordinaries would never fade away.

Zaf was caring, tough and loyal. Sweet and smart. A spy. A life that could shine one day, and cease to exist the next.

Jo doesn't know whether she is brave enough or strong enough to take a risk that could leave her life in tatters.

...

He was thankful to have a roommate. After weeks of arriving home to an empty flat after hellish operations, Zaf had been introduced to the lonelier side of life as a spy. It got to the stage where he didn't even resent the six am alarm, more than happy to be in the company of others sooner rather than later.

When Jo moved in, he thought all of those feelings of loneliness would dissipate. At first, they did. Together they'd watch telly and eat pizza. In the mornings there'd be someone to drink coffee with. The rent was shared.

For practical purposes, it was ideal. But Zaf was struggling to deal with what he was feeling now.

Of course, it was obvious how he was _supposed _to feel. Jo was attractive. He had a reputation with women.

But something was different.

When she smiled at him over the breakfast bar he couldn't return the smile effortlessly, like he would to a pretty girl in a bar. Her smile made his breath catch in his throat. She smelt of some kind of flowery perfume or shampoo - whatever it was, it was intoxicating but certainly not unwelcome. He couldn't help but admire the way she piled her hair up in a ponytail, studded with hair pins, insisting it was for practicality and that she hated having her hair tied up. Zaf couldn't understand why. She still looked beautiful.

He wasn't sure when she became one of the team. Suddenly, one day, she was chipping in suggestions in the Meeting Room or gathering intel like she'd done it every day of her life. He was startled at her skill. She was sweet and innocent and pretty. Now she was a fully-fledged spy. She could even kill him.

She was strong, but he wasn't. Another day went by when he didn't kiss her. And then another. Another torturous twenty four hours when he was uncertain of what he felt, and would never dare to find out.

Spies die, and grief can cripple. Even if you learn to live with it, the damage it leaves is irreparable. Something about the very nature of their existence ensured true loneliness; a harsh side-effect of the job description. They forge alliances and give their lives up for civilians, but they don't have a hope at maintaining a relationship.

So maybe it's better than he doesn't ask her out for a drink, because one day one of them wouldn't come back to the flat, kick off their shoes and collapse on the sofa. Spies die. Espionage kills. They are indefinitely alone, and it's out of choice.

But Zaf can't help but crave recklessness. He has had a reckless streak since a teenager. If he and Jo both have uncertain futures, surely it would be logical to make the most of any moment they had together? He knew his career would probably kill him. She probably knew she would meet the same end.

Why not get a little happiness in the meantime, before the ticking time bomb of existence detonates and there's nothing else left to do?


End file.
